


Best-Laid Plans of Los Angelinos

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Cuckolding, Drunk Sex, F/M, First Time, Humiliation, Light Bondage, Light breeding kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Seduction, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Emily and Jon have a detailed plan. Tommy's up for following them anywhere.





	Best-Laid Plans of Los Angelinos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadtomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtomato/gifts).



> Enormous thanks to both Winterfold and anatomical_heart for pointing me to sadtomato's prompt and giving me some extra inspiration to treat it!

“I can't believe you had shampoo shipped to our house,” Emily tells Tommy, giggling. “I knew once you experienced our hospitality you'd never want to leave.”

Jon grins at him. “You're becoming our second goldendoodle. And almost as well-trained as the OG.” He points at Leo, unnecessarily.

“I didn’t want to use yours! I’m just trying to be a good guest!” Tommy protests. He can’t stop himself from laughing; his abs and his cheeks hurt from how fun this whole evening has been. “... Also, I didn’t want to go to the store.”

“There it is,” Jon puts in, tongue out between his teeth as he smiles. “Knew there was a real reason.”

“Says the man with the Postmates addiction,” Tommy tells him. The room is spinning, just a little. He feels warm all over. He can’t believe he gets to _live_ with Jon and Emily, even if it’s temporary. Even if he really should move out and let them have their privacy back, soon. Sometimes he can hear them—never mind. He’s not going to think about that. 

“You’re right,” Emily tells Tommy, face aiming for serious and not quite getting there. “He loves Postmates. He loves Postmates as much as Leo. As much as me. As much as you.” 

Tommy laughs again. “So, like, so much, then. He loves Postmates so much.”

“ _So_ much, Tommy.” Emily moves across the couch to him in a long-legged, awkward crawl, like a foal crossed with a crab. A foal crossed with a crab but, like, hot. Tommy blinks, trying to find a better simile, but then Emily’s practically in his lap and it’s impossible to think about anything but how close she is. Emily's always cuddly, especially when she's drunk; it makes his heart beat faster with all the things he thinks about and can't have. 

“You’re very close,” he tells her, and she laughs, and then she’s unbalancing, tipping towards the carpet. He manages to catch her, sort of; instead of her taking a header to the floor, both of them tip slowly off the couch, landing with a soft _whoomph_ of exhale on their sides. 

Jon peers down at them, not leaning too far off his own chair. “Everyone okay down there?”

Emily giggles. “Nobody’s in here but us chickens,” she says, and Tommy doesn’t even know why he laughs so hard but he does. 

Emily’s pressed all up against him, and every time she giggles, it vibrates his chest and his belly and—

He rolls away from her, onto his front on the carpet. He swallows. He’s their _guest_ , there are—there are boundaries, and protocols, and—

Emily giggles again. “Are you hard, Tommy?”

He looks up, mortified. He can feel the flush spreading across his cheeks, warming them. He’s always so fucking quick to turn red, and right now is the worst possible moment. Maybe—maybe he was already red from the wine, maybe they won’t notice anything.

“I think he is,” Jon says, and Tommy glances up at him, heart in his throat. Jon wouldn’t—Jon wouldn’t embarrass him like this, in front of Emily. He wouldn’t. “I think he’s hiding it, don’t you? You should check.”

Tommy _knows_ he’s red-faced now, breathing too hard, gone too still. Emily rolls closer to him, not laughing anymore. “You gonna let me check, Tommy?”

“I—what?” Tommy says, weakly. His cock is pinned against the carpet, and he wants to shift, move it a little in his jeans, but he can’t, not with both of them watching him like this. 

Emily sits up, shrugs. It's not a cold shrug; it's more like she's giving him an option, he thinks. Like she's giving him an out, if he wants it. “Or … you could come here and kiss me,” she says. 

She’s still not laughing. _Jon’s_ not laughing, both of them watching him like—like this is something they’re really suggesting, like this is a real thing that’s really happening. It can’t be. It _can’t_.

Tommy can’t sit up. He moves his arm around, lifts his shoulders off the carpet. “Are—are you guys punking me?”

Emily looks up at Jon, then back down at Tommy. “We can be if you want us to be. We can just, you know. Oops, drunk, thought you were somebody else.” She trips over _somebody_ , but the sentence rolls off her tongue otherwise, like she’s thought about this. Like they planned it or something. “Or—not.”

Tommy swallows. There’s a scared-excited lump in his throat that isn’t going away. His hands feel cold with sweat, and he’s, if anything, harder than ever. 

He sits up, face burning with the way they're watching him, the way his erection must be unmistakable in his khakis. He can't quite meet Emily's eye, but he tilts his body towards her. 

“Oh, good choice,” Jon says, low and throaty, and then Tommy’s distracted, because Emily’s leaning towards him, giggling again, her hand soft on his jaw. 

“Hi,” she says. “You’re so warm.” He certainly feels warm, everywhere her cool fingers are touching him. 

She leans in farther, tipping up onto her knees. “Tall,” she says, making it sound like a minor complaint, and then she’s kissing him, mouth sweet and easy against his. 

It’s just light, just touches, and then she loses her balance and falls into his lap, an arm around his neck to keep her upright, and suddenly they’re going at it hell for leather. Emily’s a biter; she has his bottom lip in her teeth every other moment, and the slight pain zings through him, makes him grab at her hips and pull her closer. 

He should break away, look at Jon. He should find out what the boundaries are, here. Kissing—all they’d said was kissing, except—except _you should check_. 

He hopes to fuck she still wants to check. He’s got plenty going on she could check, if she wants to. He hopes Jon’s watching, and also doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to feel about that. Is this—swinging? The kind of thing where Tommy can touch Emily, but not Jon? He’ll take this, if it’s on offer, but he wants to touch Jon, too. Wants Jon to want to touch him. 

They're really making out now, Emily's hips rolling a little under his hands. He thinks she's just that turned on, that she's flexing her muscles and grinding against the floor a little, the way girlfriends have told him they do. He thinks he'd like to make her need more than that, if he's allowed. 

Emily’s hand finds his thigh, and he groans. She pulls away from his mouth, laughing again. “Not yet,” she says. “I think you’re going to do something for me, first.” 

“Okay,” he says, feeling sex-dumb already, but at least it makes a lot more sense to follow along with whatever Emily tells him than to try to take initiative she might not want, or that Jon might object to. 

Emily tilts back against the couch, legs spread wide. She’s wearing tiny shorts, and she reaches down to wrestle with the fly of them, fingers fumbling. “Help me—” she mumbles, and Tommy reaches for the hems, hooking his thumbs under them, against the hot skin of the backs of her thighs, and tugging. They come off easy, once she lifts her hips, and there’s, fuck, there’s nothing under them. 

He thinks, for just a second before he can’t think about anything beyond _can I touch_ , that Emily maybe planned this whole thing. Jon and Emily, maybe. Probably. 

“You’ve got such a big cock,” Emily tells him, and he glances up at her, startled. That’s not—well, it’s not untrue, but she’s had no occasion to know, unless she's got a remarkable eye for bulges. Or unless … Jon told her. Unless Jon and Emily talked about his dick. Jon and Tommy have been to the gym together hundreds of times over the years, maybe thousands; _Jon's_ had occasion to know. 

He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t need to; she’s still talking. “So you’d better finger me and get me ready,” she says, inching her ass along the carpet until she’s on her elbows, legs spread for him. Tommy could fucking come in his pants right now, just looking at her. She looks like she _needs_ it, like she’s got no shame about telling him what she wants and getting it for herself. 

He still can’t look at Jon, but he hears, off to the side, a soft groan. 

“Don’t make me wait, Tommy,” Emily tells him, less a plea than an order. He takes it. She’s hot inside, soft and yielding and not dripping wet, but enough that he can ease two fingers in. 

He sucks a breath in through his nose, says, shakily, “How—how do you like it?”

“Good question,” Emily says. “You’re gonna be such a good fuck, Tommy, I can tell. Better than Jon—” and at this, finally, Tommy looks up at Jon, horrified, not knowing what to say, how to make her take that back—

—but Jon’s biting his lip and running his hand over the bulge in his sweats. “God,” he says, and when Tommy looks back at Emily, she’s grinning. She beckons Tommy closer, and he leans in until her breath rustles the hair at his temples. 

“He likes it,” she says, voice low in his ear. “Play along? Help me get him off?”

Tommy’s lost in all of this, but _help me get him off_ feels like magic words. He nods, and Emily kisses his cheek. She says, loud enough for Jon, “Your fingers are so big, Tommy.”

She still hasn’t told him what she likes, so he tries a few things, dipping shallowly versus stroking the outside versus getting deep and curling forward. She asked him to finger her open—nothing else—so as much as he wants to, he doesn’t touch her clit. He doesn’t reach for her breasts, either, under that little top, but he does stroke a hand up the inside of one long thigh. He can’t not, with it flung over his lap like this. 

Emily seems to like everything, but she rolls her hips up to meet him when he gives her shallow strokes, so he focuses on that, on getting her wet and wanting. Wanting to fuck him, apparently, if he’s not hugely misunderstanding this. Wanting to fuck him in front of Jon.

He risks another glance at Jon. Jon’s staring at Emily, at her pussy. At the way it’s split open on three of Tommy’s big fingers. 

“You, um,” he says, wanting to participate more, not sure he’s going to get it right. “You’re so tight. And, ah, wet.”

Emily grins at him, then transitions into something he can only call _intent_. “Yeah, I’m so wet for you. I’m so ready for you to fuck me with your big cock. Fill me up the way Jon can’t.”

Jon whimpers. He sounds so much like Leo that Tommy almost laughs—might have, except that Emily’s got her fingers tight on his wrist, moving his hand the way she wants it. She wants it slow and easy, apparently, and as he watches, her own thumb brushes her clit. 

“I can—I can do that,” Tommy says, quietly. “Let me do that?”

Emily says, “Another time,” and the lump in Tommy’s throat is back again. Another time. More than just tonight, they might do this. 

She turns to look at Jon, and so Tommy does, too. Jon’s hands are fisted beside his thighs; he’s not touching himself at all anymore, even though Tommy can see him tenting his sweats. He looks like it’s taking all of his energy to keep still. 

“Hmm,” Emily says. “I’m going to have to tie you up, aren’t I? You’re behaving yourself now, but I know you. You’ll be too horny watching a real man fuck me to control yourself.” 

Tommy thinks, _she said he likes it, she said he likes it, she said he likes it._ He knows Emily wouldn’t lie about something like that; he knows Jon’s hard, and obeying her. He’s sure this is a thing they’ve talked about, maybe planned. It just feels so real, right now, listening to Emily talk. He couldn’t be on the other end of that, he doesn’t think. This side—well, that’s easy enough. Take instruction, have a big dick. That’s very much in his wheelhouse. 

“Yes,” Jon says, interrupting Tommy’s thoughts. “Please, I’ll—I won’t be able to control myself.”

“Pathetic,” Emily says, and Jon’s face screws up—not in hurt, like Tommy might have expected, but matched to the buck of his hips, to his hands jerking toward his cock and then down again. Jon doesn’t just _like_ this. Jon’s fucking desperate for this.

Well. Tommy can give it to him. Or Tommy can help Emily give it to him, anyway. 

Emily clambers up to her feet, swaying. “Stay here,” she tells Tommy, and disappears into another room. Tommy looks over at Jon, wondering if he should say anything, but Jon’s eyes are shut, his whole body tense and focused. Tommy wonders if he could come in his sweats like this, if he’s that turned on by it. Surely not, but—but then again. He’s so on edge, just from watching and listening. 

Emily comes back in, now fully naked. Tommy glances up at the closed blinds and thinks, again, that all of this was planned, maybe right down to the details. She’s carrying, Jesus, leather handcuffs. Jon and Emily own leather handcuffs.

Emily’s rough with Jon. She plants a knee between his thighs, shoves it into him hard. Tommy winces automatically, but Jon makes another soft, needy sound. “Get ahold of yourself,” Emily says, and then yanks his arms behind him. Tommy can’t see her cuffing him, but he can hear the clink of the metal attachment, and the staccato irregularity of Jon’s breathing. 

“Now, where were we?” Emily purrs, turning back to Tommy. “You’re going to fuck me so good, aren’t you?”

Tommy nods, for lack of a better response. She grins at him, and crosses the floor to him, drops down to sit close. “Yeah. You’ll fuck me so much better than Jon can. I’m so desperate for your big cock, Tommy. Let me see it.” 

He reaches for his zipper, and she knocks his hands away, does it herself, like she’s too desperate to wait and watch him. Her free hand shoves at his hip until he’s sideways to Jon, so—he’s pretty sure—Jon can see his cock as soon as it’s freed, jutting out and up and looking huge in Emily’s small hand. 

She directs him farther, pushing and pulling and gesturing, until he’s kneeling over her where she’s now laid herself out on the floor. They’re diagonal to Jon; Tommy supposes if Emily wants him to see just about everything, this is the way to do it. 

“Come on, Tommy,” Emily says, spreading her legs under him. “I’m _so_ fucking unsatisfied with Jon, I need a real man.” 

“We, ah,” Tommy says. “Condom, do you have—”

She slings a leg around him, pressing his hips down toward her with her heel. “We don’t need one, babe. I want you to come in me, please. I need your come.” She pulls him down with a hand to the back of his neck, whispers, “I’ve got an IUD.” Tommy nods, again. All of this is so—it’s so fucking strange, and so fucking hot. He looks over his shoulder to see Jon tied up and straining. 

“Yeah,” he says, loud enough for Jon. “Yeah, let me come in you.” 

Emily tugs with her heel again, and this time he goes, wrapping a hand around his cock to direct it at her pussy. She really is fucking tight; he makes himself stop, to say, “Is—are you okay?”

Emily’s response isn’t directed at him. “He’s so fucking big,” she says. “He’s just filling me up, I’m so full of his cock, Jon.” Jon’s breathing gets heavier—Tommy wouldn’t have said that was possible—and Emily shifts her hips, opening up to Tommy. 

Tommy pushes in, fully, feeling her heat around him. He wants to touch; her gorgeous tits are right under him, and her legs around him, but he keeps his hands planted on the floor, because she’s been very specific about what she does and doesn’t expect of him. He’ll just do this thing she wants: fuck her well, come in her. Never let it be said that Tommy Vietor can’t take direction, especially from a hot woman complimenting his dick. 

He starts easy, dragging his cock out of her and pausing, forcing himself to wait, until she groans and says, “Please just—”

Jon, behind him, groans even louder, and Tommy pushes into her, just as slow. 

“He’s so big, Jon,” Emily says again, like it’s all she can think about. “He’s so big all over, too. I bet he could pick me up and fuck me against the wall. I bet I’ll come harder than you’ve ever made me.” 

Tommy turns, watches Jon’s arms and shoulders moving, like he’s fighting the cuffs. Watches the way he’s rolling his hips, trying to get friction on his cock. 

Tommy never in his life pictured being in this scenario—he’s not saying he hasn’t seen some of the porn, but it’s not one of the tropes he searches for when he’s looking for jack-off material. Apparently it _is_ what Jon and Emily search for. Not what Jon used to watch, in Chicago, the handful of times Tommy walked in at the wrong moment or borrowed his computer and clicked on the wrong thing. Maybe it’s just something he likes with Emily. Maybe it’s something Emily’s taught him to like. 

Maybe they’ve been talking about it in bed for ages, waiting to seduce someone. Waiting to seduce _Tommy_. 

“He’s—Tommy’s going to come in me, I could,” Emily gasps, and then goes quiet for a second, catching her breath. “I could get pregnant, Jon. With Tommy’s baby instead of yours. He could knock me up, while you’re over there watching and not doing anything but getting hard watching him fuck me.” She stops again, then gasps, “Probably—probably more fertile than you. More, God. More virile.”

Tommy knows she said she had an IUD, trusts her, but Christ, that’s—that shouldn’t be so hot, the idea of him knocking Emily up right in front of her fiancé. In front of his best friend, tied up and loving it. 

Emily squirms under him, rolling her hips into Tommy’s thrusts, forcing him to speed up. Her hands are clawing at his back, and he thinks she’s close, closer than he would have expected. She works a hand between them, fingers—he’s sure—on her clit, her head rolling back. However studied her lines might be, Tommy’s pretty sure she actually is getting off pretty fucking hard on his cock, or at least on the whole scenario. He’s pretty sure she’s fucking loving it. 

Which leaves him free to love it, too. He speeds up, needing it, the warm-wet squeeze of her massaging him. He keeps his hands on the floor, but he thinks about touching, thinks about how it would feel to mouth at her tits, to tighten his hands on her ass. To watch Jon touch her. To watch Jon fuck her, like this—or differently, to watch take-charge Emily tie Jon down and ride him. Sit on his face. God, watch Emily strap it on and fuck Jon, fingers in his mouth, Jon whimpering and, and—

Emily cries out, a squeal of noise that’s accompanied by her legs and her pussy squeezing down on Tommy hard enough to make him lose his breath. He was already on the edge; he’s grateful she’s over it, because he can’t hold off any more. He gasps something, maybe not quite a word, and then he’s coming inside of her, Emily’s hips still rising to meet his as he thrusts. 

He lets his head dip down to her shoulder while he breathes through it, and then carefully pulls out. Some of his come is dislodged, dripping down to Emily’s ass, and some of it down his cock. He wonders if he should offer to grab a cloth and clean up the floor, and then Emily says, “Jon. Come help us with this mess.” 

Tommy thinks his heart stops, just for a second. Something happens in his chest, anyway, because Jon’s rolling himself carefully off the sofa and onto his knees, crawling—fucking _crawling_ towards them with his hands still tied behind his back. He’s still hard; he hasn’t found the friction he needs, yet. There’s a little patch of darker gray, though, where Tommy thinks, Christ, he’s leaking precome through his sweats. 

“I think,” Emily says, still sounding breathless, “You should clean up our floor, first. Then Tommy, then me.”

Tommy swallows. Swallows again. The floor—that’s hot, but his brain is caught firmly on _then Tommy_. Jon’s going to—Emily’s going to make Jon—Jon maybe, probably, _wants_ to—

Jon’s tongue is on the floor. It had been clean, Tommy thinks, before—before he and Emily dripped all over it. Maybe, God. Maybe they’d cleaned it special, hoping Jon would be doing this, now. God. Jon’s licking Tommy’s come off the floor, bent over carefully with his hands still cuffed behind him. Tommy’s never seen anything as hot in his life, he doesn’t think. And now Jon’s looking up at Emily to see if—what? If he can start cleaning Tommy off? If he’s done a good enough job?

Tommy thinks, wildly, that he has to write all of this down so he can’t forget anything, later. So he’ll have it forever to read back through. He might never need porn again, if he has a narrative of this night. 

“You want to clean Tommy off, don’t you?” Emily asks Jon, and he nods, fast. Jon can see the way his cheeks are darkened under his tan—not pink, like Tommy gets, but splotched with red-brown. He’s not looking at Tommy. “Want to lick that big cock that got me off so fucking well?”

Maybe she needed a verbal answer, or maybe Jon just wanted to give it; he croaks out, “ _Please_.”

Emily looks up at Tommy, and Tommy looks at both of them—Emily still laid out on the floor with her knees wide, and yet commanding the room; Jon, sweat-damp and hard and begging to put his mouth on Tommy’s cock. Tommy’s not entirely sure this isn’t some kind of beautiful hallucination. 

Tommy realizes, after Emily raises her eyebrows at him, that she might be waiting for something, for him. “Uh, yes,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. He’s not the one who begs, in this scenario Emily’s created. He’s the one who accepts Jon’s tongue on him stoically, if he can. 

He fucking can’t. He’s not sure anyone can. He’s so sensitive it almost hurts, even though Jon’s being gentle, soft-mouthed and slow. It’s lighting up every goddamn nerve in his body, it feels like, and every part of his brain that isn’t pure sensation is stuck on the image of it, Jon licking the length of his cock like that’s something Jon _does_. Jon looks hot all the time, but Jon with his mouth on Tommy’s cock is, is—Tommy can’t think of a fucking metaphor right now.

“Now me,” Emily says, imperiously, and Jon groans and pulls away from Tommy and dives into her, face-first. Tommy doesn’t know what Jon’s technique is like usually, but watching him, it seems like right at this moment he wants to fucking drown himself in Emily’s pussy. 

Tommy collapses onto his heels, finally, tucking himself back into his khakis, and then rearranges himself, criss-cross-applesauce. He wants to sit and just glue his attention to the glory of this, to the way it seems like Jon is seeking out every trace of Tommy’s come inside of Emily. To the way Jon’s moaning into her skin and still straining against his handcuffs. 

He wants to know if Emily’s going to let Jon get off; if she’s going to make him go to bed like this, desperate and needy. If she’s going to open her eyes and watch Tommy watching them. She’s too caught up in enjoying it, he thinks—now that Jon’s face is between her legs, she can finally turn off the persona a little. Jon can’t see her face, and she can screw it up in pleasure. 

She must know that Tommy can see her, though, and she’s letting him watch. That’s its own kind of special, Tommy thinks. That’s an unexpected gift. 

Emily comes, again. This time she’s quieter, low-voiced grunting and panting, and she presses Jon’s head into her pussy when he tries to move. She grinds up into his tongue and keeps it going for what seems like an impossible length, and then yanks him off by his hair. 

Jon lays his cheek on her thigh and catches his own breath, all of them breathing too-loud in the quiet of the house. 

“If,” Emily starts, and then clears her dry throat. “If you ask very nicely, maybe Tommy will take pity on you.” 

Jon rolls onto his back, head still on Emily’s thigh. His eyes do the begging for him, but Tommy can feel Emily’s gaze on him and keeps his hands to himself until Jon says, “Please, I need—need a real man to help me get off.”

Tommy thinks, _you’re the realest man I know_ , but he gets the kinky vibe of it, what Jon wants. He hopes he gets it. “Don’t make me do the work,” he says, and stretches his legs out in front of him. “You can hump my leg, if you need to get off.”

“ _Christ_ , Tommy,” Emily says, but it doesn’t sound like a no. He’s pretty sure it’s a good response, and he knows the way Jon scrambles up onto his thigh is a good response. 

They’re pressed close, like this, and Tommy reaches up to pull Jon’s face into his neck. He can’t quite make himself look Jon in the eye while Jon’s humping him like a dog, while Jon’s humiliating himself, however much it’s clear Jon likes it and wants it. He’ll look at him tomorrow, over breakfast, when they’re both themselves again. 

He’ll probably, over breakfast, ask what this was and if they want to do it again, because he does. He definitely does. He wants more than this—wants to be able to touch Emily, to kiss Jon. To be with them both in something other than this way, if that’s on the table. He hopes it is. 

Jon’s hips stutter, cock dragging against Tommy’s hip through two layers of pants. It’s hot against him, even so, and Tommy can’t feel that it’s wet but he knows it is. He can’t keep himself from sliding a hand down to Jon’s ass, feeling it out beneath where Jon's hands are still cuffed. He wonders what else he could say that would fit the mood right: that Jon’s got an ass like a woman, maybe, or maybe that would be the wrong thing. That Jon’s humping him like a dog in heat—but that might be wrong, too. 

He’s just silent, instead, feeling Jon’s ass move under his hand, watching Emily watch them. He feels like the alcohol’s drained out of his system, leaving him hyper-alert, hyper-focused. Everything is just this narrow reality of wanting Jon to get off, wanting Emily to think he did a good job. Wanting, a little bit, Emily to talk about his big cock again, even though it makes his cheeks hot thinking about how much he’d liked that. 

Jon gasps, and bites down on the skin of Tommy’s neck. It hurts; Tommy’s too far past his orgasm to feel much pleasure in the pain, except the academic pleasure of knowing he made Jon come. He still likes it, even if it’s academic. 

Jon collapses onto him, and then, to Tommy’s surprise and a fresh round of laughter, Emily crawls up and collapses onto Jon. The two of them together force Tommy to the ground, weighing him down, and he wraps his arms around them. He’d had some questions about whether, after, he’d have to keep being cool, stoic, big-dick guy. Apparently not so much. 

Emily giggles and kisses behind Jon’s ear. “Oh my God,” she says. “That was wild.” 

“Uh, agreed,” Tommy says. The patch of Jon's come on his thigh is wet and warm on his leg, and Emily's still naked, and everything that's happened tonight is still rushing through his brain. “Very unexpected.”

“You good?” Emily asks. 

Tommy’s not sure if that’s for him or for Jon, but he says, “Yeah. Yeah, uh—very, very good.”

“Mm-hm,” Jon agrees. He sounds half-asleep. He’s still, Tommy thinks, cuffed, with Emily lying over his arms. Tommy wonders if that hurts. He wonders if Jon likes it to hurt. 

He wonders a lot of things. “Tomorrow, can I ask some follow-up questions?”

“Sure,” Emily says. “You’re a good sport, you know.”

“Seconded,” Jon mumbles. 

Tommy laughs, and tips his head back against the floor. “You’re heavy in combination, you know.”

“We do know,” Emily tells him, not moving. “You’re not going anywhere, right? Even if we get up?”

“I mean, I’m going to shower and go to bed,” Tommy says. “Use my new shampoo. But not—I’m not going anywhere, no.”

“Good,” Emily says. She rolls off and up onto her feet, and pulls Jon up by the cuffs and one shoulder. “I’m gonna take Jon up to bed. If you feel weird in the night, come in and cuddle with us, okay? Promise me.” He doesn’t know what she means, but he nods agreement. Emily twists her mouth. “No. Come cuddle us after your shower. Okay?”

He shrugs. It doesn’t sound like a hardship. “Sure. You sure? Sure.”

Emily grins at him. “See you in twenty, then.” He watches them go, Jon trailing behind her on stiff legs, and then lets his head fall back on the floor with a quiet thunk. 

He definitely didn’t plan for this when he moved to LA. He definitely didn’t expect it. But it’s sure making him smile to himself in an empty room. Maybe his living here, with two of his best friends in the world, won’t be so temporary after all.


End file.
